


Nyctalopia

by justabore



Category: Gemini Man (2019)
Genre: College Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, too much chaotic gibberish, with some chaotic gibberish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 20:10:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21105314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justabore/pseuds/justabore
Summary: Henry got to see how his life could unfold in a completely different way, and that was a little bit disorienting even for the world’s sharpest shooter, who was used to seeing the whole world through the heart of a tiny, distorted circle. That, and a half bottle of icy beer.





	Nyctalopia

“So people haven’t been sniffing around your age?” Uttered Henry, upon desperate effort for an advisable topic.

Jackson has invited him to the dorm, where he should not have come, for a beer, which he should not have taken. 

He really didn’t want to mess this one up.

He really didn’t expect that the young fella would still want to see him after the Gemini crisis. All necessary certificates would become accessible with the aid of Del. Henry figured it was time that he exited this young man’s life. A proper live-and-let-live-guy, that was what Henry had become.

But he was asked for. The young man–now going by Jackson, asked for his presence, for which Henry was granted opportunities to experience many things he had missed in life. He has been to snicker stores and barber corners. He was on college tours, across multiple states. Jackson wanted him to be there. He wanted Henry to stay in his life.

Henry got to see how _his_ life could unfold in a completely different way, and that was a little bit disorienting even for the world’s sharpest shooter, who was used to seeing the whole world through the heart of a tiny, distorted circle. That, and a half bottle of icy beer.

“I just told them I’ve been helping my dad out,” said Jackson. Always as sensitive, he quickly added, “what?"

Henry sniffed his own nose, “nothing. Just didn’t figure you’d still be considering Verris a father."

“Of course not. What are you talking about?” Jackson’s eyes opened wide. He’s always had bigger eyes. Watery, too. Henry couldn’t remember whether he did use to have those eyes. But he surely would’ve loved to.

Henry was slowly shifting attention from those eyes to those words, “you meant… Me?"

Great. Now he messed this one up. It was just absolutely advisable for him to be looking for filial affection from Jackson at this point.

Jackson didn’t seem to have taken the offense. He just shrugged, “sure, why not? You’re fifty years old, looks pretty convincing."

“Fifty-one.” Henry added, almost out of reflex.

Jackson shrugged again. This time it was really time for him to shut up.

They sipped their beers, and then again. Henry noticed he was sitting directly opposite a full-body mirror hanging behind the door. He glanced over other parts of the room.

“Nice room. Your roommate’s not gonna turn in soon?” Henry pointed his bottle roughly towards the empty bed on the other side before quickly holding it back against his chest. It somehow felt more reassuring.

Jackson was under-interested, “I don’t think he’s coming back when he’s got party. He usually don’t.”

“That kinda guy, huh?” Henry, back at ground zero, tried to lighten things up, “you should go with him. Have fun. You’re young, attractive, hundred percent public-school-sex-ed free–“ and got a little carried away.

“Jesus, ‘dad’.” Jackson protested mildly, with a crack of a smile on his softened face. It was hard to see a blush on someone like him. But there had got to be one.

Henry raised his hands to show some modesty, and realized his beer was finished, which served a fine opening for him to call it a night.

Before he could have said it, Jackson, seemingly out of nowhere, asked him how he has been recovering. He meant the injuries from their fights. It was on both of their consciences, perhaps it has been growing a bit heavier on Jackson. It was no dead weight, though. He was young. He had time to grow out of it.

Nothing was too serious. Henry unzipped his hoodie to show a scar or two. The bruises had already fallen off, bones back at their usual angle. Some stitches remained. 

“Rough ones,” remarked Jackson. He was looking closer at one further down the waist. He himself had one like that. It almost seemed like it had emerged from below the skin just like any other trademarks of their shared DNA.

Danny did the stitching using those hands of hers that were more skillful at report polishing and bare fist fighting. That explained the clumsiness. It would actually have been better if Henry did the patchwork job himself, like he always had to.

“It’s always better doing things with your own hands. They don’t fail.” 

The tip of a finger landed on top of threads of newly grown flesh. The tip of an iceberg has landed on top of the darker side of the moon.

Henry was touched upon by something of urgent intimacy. And for the first time it was not an attack or an unsettled alarm, not fear or self-regulated anguish. It was a caress–from a hand from the absolute outer space.

He always knew before someone was about to sneak up behind his back. He was trained to be always knowing. Therefore he knew Jackson’s movement. Almost like a telepathic prophecy, Henry knew the torso was straightened, the eyes were fixed, the mind was calmed.

Somewhere a tip of a finger has landed on a trigger.

He was going to say something. A single syllable popping into the air would have turned the situation around. But as his lips formed a round shape–such a premature shape, Jackson toppled him down with full-body velocity and a kiss.

As a feather fell to the ground, its long awaiting reign of foulness leapt up to make a catch. Soaked, crushed, kidnapped and devoured was Jackson Brogen’s kiss. His tongue claimed Henry’s tongue; his hands collected Henry’s flesh. Henry heard the sound of one of their belts unbuckling, and bodily liquid swirling in their mouths right next to his ear.

He was defeated once again by sheer guilt and astonishment. Jackson ground his crotch against Henry’s like a first-time-born animal learning to unravel the force he was born with. He grabbed Henry’s cock and pressed it onto his own all at once.

The sensation of rubbing one's thing against another man’s was totally unfamiliar to Henry, particular not when it was technically and metaphorically supposed to be one that had been cloned off of him. There was something utterly despicable about this; then there was madness; then there was pleasure–as if feeling velvet from the inside where friction was generated backwards, something utterly, and naturally erotic.

He basically had to tear the young man off of his body to be able to breathe. Then he told him he had to use the bathroom.

He indeed had to use the bathroom before putting his half-erection back into the constraint of denim and zipper. Henry washed his hands, splashed water onto his face, and stared into the mirror, seeing a pair of eyes that conveyed nothing but severe lack of rest. He needed to rest. The calluses on the gun-holding sides of his fingers and in-between his broken bones needed to grow tender and shed off.

As he walked out the door, Jackson instantly approached with his usual swiftness and shameless innocence. In no time Henry was soaked back into a heated embrace and kisses that multiplied. 

Someone was clearly unimpressed with the belt being buckled back to where it was. As Junior worked his way–there, it was such slippery slope that Henry had to fall down to get to where they were. It took them both so much time and effort to take _Jackson_ in, and within the clicking off of a braincell he was Junior again. He was Henry’s unfathomable key through a hole again. He was the moon lingering at his night blindness at the break of dawn. _That_ he was and would remain.

Henry’s back crushed into stiff mattress, which was nevertheless better than stiff concrete. His legs were spread wide open with animalistic talents and the aid of some college boy lubricant. He was gripped by the feeling that something so adequately powerful was about to break away his defense, one that he had been using against both what was outside and what was in. Up there a fantastical version of himself was cocooned by the interwoven lights of the moon and the lamp, the ash and the gold. He was taken and fulfilled, purged of a whole universe of otherness that was not _him_. He was, at this much pivotal moment, one.

Junior flipped him around and with such permission thrusted viciously deeper. The inside was tender, tailored to his every vein. Even the slightest movement was compensated, sucking him down to the very core. He could feel the muscles below him tighten, so vividly he could draw lines along them if he wanted to. The lines along Henry’s ass stuck up high, grinding for more. In time he would. But for now, Junior lied on Henry's back, pressing him down with his whole body’s weight released.

Henry tried to shake him off and was not successful, “at least you can get your stuff out of my ass first.”

The young man breathed steadily out of the nostrils, squeezing his voice through the brink of a snore, “try get yours out of mine, old man.”

Henry gave up, started counting down to five minutes instead. For someone so completely lacking respect for his elders, that was the least one can give.


End file.
